


Keeping the Balance

by GarlicBreadforJuliusCaesar



Series: 50 Worst Dates (MCU) [4]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Clint Barton Paints his Toenails, Dry Humping, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rivalry, Stephen Strange is an Asshole, Why Did I Write This?, Wii Fit - Freeform, Wii Fit Yoga, Yoga, tai chi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 07:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarlicBreadforJuliusCaesar/pseuds/GarlicBreadforJuliusCaesar
Summary: Clint Barton and Stephen Strange have two things in common: Stubbornness and a knowledge of Yoga.What could go wrong?





	Keeping the Balance

**Author's Note:**

> Long time, no see. Just to clarify for anyone who doesn't read any of my other works, I am one of the original creators of this series, I just have a new account name. But, never fear, I'm back at it again with my intense bullshit.
> 
> Why did I write a Wii Fit-themed smut fic? Who knows, who cares.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Oh, yeah, I barely proofread this. Tell me if anything's wrong.

For Clint, this had all started five months ago.

The Stark Tower - or Avengers Facility, as it was now known - had undergone a series of renovations. A full-scale expansion had been planned to accomodate the growing ranks of their team, tucking them all neatly into their own floors of the compound.

This was great, everyone thought so. It brought them all together, creating an atmosphere of chaos and family that Clint hadn’t known since he’d left his first group home. It meant the Avengers as a whole was contactable at any time of the day or night. The move brought companionship, community and so many other things starting with ‘C’ that Clint couldn’t even name.

It also brought a lot of shit. It brought sweaty tradespeople and City Management to their door, demanding their cooperation. It brought the whirring of drills and clanking of scaffolds to their formally peaceful tower, a wall of sound that stretched between the unholy hours of the morning and knockoff time. It brought the media, a constant pool of journalists and their gear to the entrance of the lobby - at least until one of them moved a traffic cone and Stark slapped them all with a lawsuit larger than the whole renovation budget. And, of course, it brought Strange.

Stephen Strange was an arrogant dickbag with an ego the size of the sun. He strutted around the tower like he owned the place, looking like he’d walked out of the Assassins Creed games or some shit. And he was _so fucking hot_.

Clint thought it was unfair that he was so attractive and still had the personality of a squashed lemon. It couldn’t be right to give a guy a boner and make him want to put an arrow between your eyes, all in the one sentence.

But, it got worse. One day, while Clint was chilling in the vents, minding his damn business, he heard a noise. It sounded like a crack, followed by a breath. He listened. There was the scrape of feet on carpet and another breath.

_Funny noises_ thought Clint. Too weird to simply ignore.

He shuffled over to the grate to have a look. And what he saw had he scrambling to cover his mouth, shielding his throaty moan from making it to the living room below. Just left of the grate, in all his glory, was Strange.

He was shirtless, toned white pecs and abs dotted with sweat. His chest was speckled with salt-and-pepper curls, tapering down in a handsome line to his lounge pants. His muscles tensed and flexed under his skin as he worked through the motions of a complicated Tai Chi sequence. His breathing, deep and controlled, filled the room with its rhythm.

Clint couldn’t look away. Strange had that way about him, something that just made you watch. He was like pay-per-view porn - Unattainable, tempting, and irresistible when it appeared in your living room on a random Sunday morning. So he watched for a while.

Strange worked his way through a series of slow defensive steps, ending with his arm extended out in front of him. His whole torso was taut with the effort of controlling these movements. His abs were like six perfectly sculpted sandcastles or maybe bread rolls - Clint was bad a metaphors, okay? They were hot.

He suppressed another groan as Strange moved on to the next sequence. He rotated his palm inwards, the rest of his arm rolling like a wave to meet him. He pulled his arm around, as if opening a screen door, and leant back. A lock of his hair dropped neatly onto his forehead, and the movement was so beautiful, so serene, that Clint was surprised it hadn’t been accompanied by the tinkling of a wind chime.

After another handful of minutes shamelessly perving, Clint heard a voice from below.

“Are you done lurking yet?” mused Strange, huffing dryly. “Because you’re welcome to join if you are.”

_Fuck_. thought Clint, reddening in the face. _I’ve been compromised._

The question remained unanswered.

In a thick and expectant silence, Clint continued to perv on the doctor, this time with a healthy scoop of shame on his conscience. A minute passed between the question and Strange’s next remark.

“Oh-kay.” he drawled sarcastically, his accent scraping on each syllable. He carried on unperturbed.

Clint slithered back to his room, embarrassed and rock hard. Curse Strange for being so handsome and observant!

—

For Stephen, it all started three months ago.

Since that day in the living room, he’d been hesitant of Barton. The man was odd, carrying an aura of chaos with him. He was glib and brash, unpredictable. He had little shame and no dignity - of that he was certain. But, he should be given credit for his stealth, as he was undetectable at the best of times. If the man hadn’t have sneezed that day, Stephen would never have known he was there.

But, to make matters more complicated, Barton was a handsome man. Attractive, if in a rugged sort of way, he was a picture of masculinity. His firm, tan biceps - such a contrast to Stephen’s own - were mesmerising. He caught himself watching far too closely as the man loosed arrows upon their enemies with each attack.

It seemed that Barton was one of the more attractive men Stephen had ever met, and one of - if not _the_ most infuriating. The dichotomy was mind-bobbling, and he was confounded by his own temptation at every turn. Even now, after the incident, his attraction hadn’t waned.

And now, standing in the gym, he knew it wasn’t going away any time soon.

There was Barton, dressed in a loose-fitting tank and yoga pants, stretching erotically on the mats. His arms were bent at the elbow, head pressed into the floor, elbows folded lazily around it. And his legs - Stephen nearly had to look away. His legs were suspended in mid air, held in an even split out to each side in a delicate line. His eyes were closed, face fallen into a lazy grin, the image of bliss.

Stephen stood, utterly in awe of him and his strength. He watched the man’s shirt drop down to his mid-torso, revealing a stretch of skin and tissue that was impossible to ignore. His abs were uneven, hard and angular as if etched from stone, and crammed haphazardly onto his flank like a crumbling wall. He was far from perfect, but was glorious in his fallibility.

Clearing his throat, Stephen tried to pull himself away from the sight before him. He was here to exercise, not to watch Barton. He turned to go.

“Oh, hey.” Barton smiled, “Didn’t see you come in.”

Stephen froze. _Does he know how long I’ve been here?_

“Yes, I,” began Stephen, before the words died in his throat. “I, uh, forgot my towel.”

And he fled back to the locker room to clear his head. After a good moment of breathing and feeling sorry for himself, Stephen let out a sigh.

_Pull it together, man, this isn’t brain surgery!_

He headed back towards the gym, determined not to be distracted again by Barton and his captivating yoga. Well, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

There he was, this time held up on his hands, leg still spread like the curtains of a brothel. He shifted slightly as Stephen entered, leaning his weight onto his right palm just to flick a wave with his left. It was the mark of a boastful showman, and it made his neck heat.

_Damn you and your pride, Barton._

He tried to pay the man no mind, taking his place by the weights to tone his shoulders. But, with the mirrors lining the wall, he had an unobstructed view of _him_. Even as he tried to focus on his workout, his eyes drifted back.

He was now standing, one leg extended into a dainty split behind him. Each joint was placed in a perfect line, from floor to ceiling. And at the very top, shining in the light like a tiara, the crowning glory, was Barton’s metallic purple toenail.

_Good lord_!

He held each position for a long while, relaxing into each stretch. His form, so firmly instilled from his circus days, made each movement a masterpiece. Stephen watched his every move. He soaked in each twist and shake, as Barton rolled himself into impossible poses.

Weights all but forgotten, Stephen watched him flow over into a chest stand, legs bent over to kick at his bangs. He looked ten years younger, tongue flicked out in concentration. It was at that moment that Stephen felt he was intruding. _Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to stare, Stevie?_

He dropped his weights back into their holder, making a hasty exit before he could get caught too long admiring the exaggerated curve of Barton’s waist.

—

Their awkward stalemate seemed to drag on for years. Each was too stubborn or ashamed to make a move. Glances were snatched around walls and across halls for months.

Someone had to do something.

—

No one was entirely sure _why_ Stark had an old Wii console from 2008 stashed in his lab, and he had no information to share. But, one day in the early weeks of Spring, he brought it up to the common living room and set it up on the television.

It hadn’t seen much use, clearly. Despite being a decade out of date, all of the controllers and accessories were in perfect condition, with some still being in their boxes. There was only one Mii in the channel - Tony’s, obviously - and there were only three games: MarioKart, Lego _Indiana Jones_ and Wii Fit.

It got some pretty constant use for the three weeks that Peter was on break, and was well-loved by Scott when he stopped by. It was not uncommon either to find Barton awake in the early hours flying around the tracks as Princess Peach.

All was well until one afternoon when the tower was near empty. There were a serious of public appearances that night that had some of the more memorable superheroes out on the town. With all the hubbub in the recent months, Strange found he was relishing the peace and quiet- until he reached the common floor at least.

And there was Barton, dressed in skin-tight bike shorts and a smile, standing in warrior pose. He had one foot on the Wii Fit Balance Board, one on the floor, and his eyes were watching the women on the television intently.

_“Breathe in time with the blue circle.”_ said the television.

Barton breathed dramatically. Strange clicked his tongue dismissively. He did it again, sighing like a women on a travel commercial.

“Must you do that here?” Stephen asked, trying to ignore the flex of the archer’s calf.

Barton shrugged, then chuckled as the trainer instructed him to engage his core to keep from swaying. His laugh was carefree and intoxicating while also sounding like a VHS tape being rewound.

“Just tryna beat the record,” he countered, “The previous owners of the game forgot to erase their scores, and this Clarke kid had some pretty impressive flow.”

Strange hummed dismissively. Leave it to Barton to make relaxing a competitive sport.

_“Sure.”_

Barton threw him a look. A _I-think-you’re-being-a-prick look_. A _you’re-no-fun_ look. He rolled his eyes and went back to his yoga.

After a minute, his score appeared on the screen, having surpassed both ‘Clarke’ and someone called ‘Panda Time.’ He raised his arms to the ceiling, hands curled into the rock-and-roll symbol, and hooted madly.

“Ha, suck it, Clarke!”

Strange couldn’t contain his scoff. _What a childish man our Hawkeye is._

“What?” Barton whined.

“Just thinking that you were taking this all a little too seriously, is all. You do know these people will never know you beat them?” Strange shrugged pompously. “I just don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

Barton shoved his hands on his hips and stared down the devil that was Stephen Strange. That man had no respect for a little healthy rivalry. And _yes_, it was a little one-sided, and maybe a little inappropriate seeing as Clarke’s Mii looked about nine years old, but it was a matter of honour! He wasn’t gonna let himself be bested by some yoga prodigy with a bowl cut, _especially_ not in his own living room!

“Whatever you say, Doc.” he said. And then, more quietly, “I’d like to see you do any better, though.”

They stood and watched one another for a moment. Now, usually Strange would have more self control, but there was no one around to witness, and Barton needed to be put back in line. He cracked his neck.

“Fine. If it’ll shut you up.” He approached the board.

He left Barton’s profile - he wouldn’t want that idiot to get the credit for his prowess - and set up his own. It was a long and tedious process that included allowing Barton to measure his height with a tape measure. It could have been longer, but thankfully, Peter had taken it on himself to make each of them their own Mii.

After a quick and somewhat medically unsound ‘Body Test’, he selected the very same yoga pose Barton had been working on. _Let their be no room for argument._ He set to work.

From his seat on the couch, Barton had the prime position to watch Strange’s ass while he stretched. Now, it wasn’t the best he’d ever seen, but he couldn’t complain. He’d never had the chance to get a good look at it given the type of pants this guy wore. Seriously, how could he even move with that much fabric? Dude straight up looked like he was wearing a _tent._ Getting off topic, Strange had some buns.

And he was good at yoga. His breathing was stable and deep, keeping perfect time with the pulsing of the blue circle on screen. His posture was sound, matching the trainer on screen well. His problem was stability. He clearly wasn’t used to holding these positions for long, what with the way his arms were starting to shake with the stress. But, he pressed on.

When the exercise was over, they waited in a tense silence for the results. As the scoreboard cycled up the screen, Barton let the breath he’d been holding out in a gratified laugh. Strange’s score, while impressive, sat only third on the leaderboard, beneath Barton and the previous owner Clarke.

Strange’s expression was tense but unreadable. Barton watched as his jaw shifted, eyes fixed on the scores with such intensity that he half expected the screen to catch fire. Was that something Mr. Magic Hands could do?

“I’m out of practice.” Strange concluded.

“Or a sore loser.” supplied Barton, basking a little in his victory.

“Best of three.” snapped Strange, queuing up a pose, this time Downward Dog.

Well, Barton never _could_ back down from a challenge.

This pose had Strange shifting in his seat. Barton was flexible, almost unreasonably so, and it showed. He pressed back through his shoulder until his face was near pressed into the floor, heels flat. It took everything in him not to reach out and press a hand into his back just to feel it move. His thighs, practically stuffed into the fabric of his shorts, tensed momentarily as he settled into the stretch.

There was something dangerous and erotic about this man and how he used his skills, Strange decided. But instead of being sensible, put and end to this juvenile contest and withdraw, he threw caution to the wind. He’d dug his way into this mess, and he’d dig himself back out.

His eyes snapped back to Barton as his breath caught. The strain of the position, while not the worst he’d ever felt - not by a long shot - had been unexpected. There was the beginnings of sweat on his lip, and he fought to gain control of his breathing again.

_“Perfect. Focus on stretching your back.”_ said the trainer.

Barton’s score was good. It beat the previous record by four points, and he tossed the remote to Strange, flopping onto the couch with his leg over the armrest. He looked a touch regal, like a spoilt prince luxuriating on his throne, though he lost some of his regality in the fact that his mottled grey underwear was peeking out the top of his shorts. Still, there was something in that which dialled the tension in the room up a notch.

He turned his focus back to the task at hand. Palms resting on the board, he settled into the stretch. His back cracked and his hands shook slightly, and he breathed through. Barton watched on unashamedly. On top of bragging rights, there was a benefit to this game. Not many people could say they knew the exact shape of Strange’s shoulders. And they were nice shoulders, not too built, but sort of smooth and rising, like a waterfall.

_“Inhale through the nose. Exhale through the mouth.”_ said the trainer.

Barton found his was drawn to the crease in Strange’s brow. It was creased, twitching under the strain of keeping the position for so long. The lines were uneven, bumping into one another like a crowd of busy New Yorkers trying to bottleneck into a subway tunnel. Barton hadn’t ever noticed just how complex this guy was, not until he was laid out before him with his ass in the air, trying to win at a game that was ideally designed for fitness.

The exercise ended, and the scores were tied. Strange’s Downward Dog was no better and no worse than Barton’s. They loaded up another, this time Sun Salutation. Longer and more complex, they thought it would better test their skills.

Barton breezed through it, with good form and endurance. He was easy to walk, years of training had instilled grace in his movements. Whatever he did, his muscles seemed to respond to the call. He was the definition of precision, and Strange began to feel uneasy in the face of his competence. It made him blush and curl his fists. How did Barton keep drawing him in?

The Sun Salutation had never looked better. Barton was graceful, although his strength overall seemed to be his stability. His weakness? Attitude. During the round, he compromised his position for a moment, flailing and wobbling. He cursed colourfully and claimed he’d forgotten the sequence. He recovered, but not well enough.

“Go to **_hell_**, Clarke!” he roared as the scores came up. Barton was second on the leaderboard.

_This should be a cake walk_. thought Strange smugly.

A cake walk it was not. Barton had made it look easy, the arrogant bastard. The sequence, although simple, tripped him up. Even the instructions of the trainer couldn’t save him at times.

_“While exhaling, bend down to touch your toes.”_ She had the gaul to sound condescending.

Strange did what he was told. The tension drained out of him as he breathed, floating down to match her position. The words had left his mouth before Barton could stop them.

“I’m loving the view.”

It sounded almost sarcastic, _almost._ That wasn’t almost enough, though, and Barton tried to hide his flushed face in his elbow to mitigate embarrassment. It didn’t work, but he stood by the sentiment.

It ended. Barton rose from his seat, ready to see the scores. He knew that if he won by even a point, he took the lead. He would have bested Strange and his stupid smirk. He would be left with only one for to vanquish: Clarke the Wii Fit Yoga Legend.

It was a dead tie. Strange’s score was now seated in third place, but it matched Barton’s own. Clarke reigned supreme. Neither of them had won, and they could feel it. The air thicken with confusion as each man reached for words that wouldn’t come.

“Huh.” said Barton, dumfounded

“Indeed.”

“Go again?”

“Always.” smirked Strange.

They cued up Cobra. It was one of the harder positions the game offered, something Barton pointed out before taking his place on the floor. He folded elegantly into it, flashing a wink at Strange as his head lolled back.

Strange pulled forward in the round, breathing steady. He was warm all over, and not just from the exercises. He patted Barton’s shoulder dismissively as he handed him the remote, causing the other man to shove past him towards the board.

The next round was a disaster. They competed in Deep Breathing, neither coming close to Clarke’s impressive record, but Barton scored two points higher for his impressive lung capacity.

“How on Earth can you be _g__ood_ or _bad_ at **_breathing_**?” spat Strange.

They worked through the rest of the poses, tipping the leaderboards with each round. The world outside became irrelevant as they continued to battle it out in the world’s most lifeless, depressing gym. There they stayed until there was only one pose left: The Shoulder Stand. Barton cracked his neck.

He dropped down to the floor, tucking into a ball and lifting his legs up to the ceiling. He balanced his weight through his shoulder and elbows, feet pointed into an easy line. Strange swallowed his tongue as he saw the man’s toenails, this time painted in a bold metallic red.

Barton’s face smoothed out youthfully as he breathed through this position. Strange, already keyed up, shifted in his seat and tried to watch the screen. It was hard with Barton’s legs in the way, but he pretended it was working._ He’s beautiful. No use denying it._

He rolled gently back to the ground as the exercise ended. He rolled his shoulders, looking to Strange.

“Spectacular.” mumbled Strange. Barton smiled sheepishly.

“Your turn, Doc.” He handed him the controller.

Strange assumed the position as instructed. This was the most difficult of the day, sending a burst of pain through his hands. He hissed out a curse.

“It’s ‘cause you got your weight in the wrong place, dipshit.” called Barton, unhelpfully.

“Really.” ground Strange through clenched teeth. His legs shook and he wobbled dangerously.

_“Duh._ Lift your hips in line with your shoulders, and _breathe_.”

Moving to follow his advice was Strange’s downfall. He pulled swiftly upwards, throwing his centre of gravity out. His control faltered, position compromised then lost. He braced to hit the floor.

“Shit!” they cried. It seemed to be the only thing they could agree on.

Barton caught his legs and helped him down. Strange blushed down his chest, standing and dusting off his hands. They stood awkwardly, something they did a lot.

Barton tilted his head. “You okay?”

“Yes.” said Strange, avoiding eye contact.

Silence, and the worst kind, too.

“Um.” began Barton. “So?”

Strange stepped forward. His hands were shaking, adrenaline coursing through him. His face was hot, mouth dry, heart caught in his throat. He blinked hard, shaking his head. He tried clearing his throat. There was nothing for it.

“You’re a prick.” he breathed, “You know that, right?”

And he grasped Barton by the back of the neck, drawing him in for a kiss. Eyes squeezed shut, he awaited a response. Anything. He drew back slightly, and heard Barton make a strangled sort of noise. The best he could describe, Barton _barked._ He pressed forward and returned the kiss, bringing all his eagerness with him.

_Finally, this crazy idiot has got a clue!_ thought Barton as he cupped Strange’s jaw.

It wasn’t like any kiss they’d had before. It was powerful but graceless, with a lot of spit and teeth. Strange could taste peppermint on Barton’s breathe as he gasped into the kiss, could feel the bar on the back of his teeth as they exchanged months of pining for passion. Strange pulled at his lip and _growled._

Barton could smell the spices of Strange’s soap, thyme and rosemary. It was like he was buried in a garden and drowning at the same time, and he breathed sharply as he turned his head for a better angle. The crisp lines of the doctor’s goatee scraped his cheeks and lips. He changed his mind: Strange wasn’t a garden, he was a forest. And Barton was ready to be lost.

Their kisses went from desperate to painful. All their force, all the stolen glances and every sweet nothing swallowed burst out. It was as if there was a way to be close enough to make this right. All the anger that has burst between them these last few hours burned over their skin as they rose into each other’s embrace.

“Take your shirt off.” ground Barton, pulling at his sleeves.

“Hmm, _no_.” mused Strange, kicking Barton’s ankle out and dropping them to the floor.

He ground a hot line over Barton’s hips with his own.

“Ha-nnh. You dick!” he called, pressing his hand under the short anyway.

The air became thick with their intimacy. Pressed together from chest to feet, they moved in sync. Strange ground into Barton hard and fast, one hand gripping his ass with urgency. Barton threw his leg over Strange’s hips, whining dangerously into his lips.

Sweat pooled at Barton’s lower back. It dripped down onto his partner’s fingers, and rolled onto the Wii Balance Board they were supported on. They continues their rhythm. The air became humid around them, and they broke away from their frantic kissing to fight for breathe in crook of each other’s necks.

One final thrust, and Barton came, slipping through his shorts. It was blinding. Strange followed suit with a groan and a sigh. They collapsed onto the balance board and the floor. Wrapped in each other’s limbs, they stayed regaining their breathe.

Someone should have told them about the weight limit on the board. It creaked heartlessly, and splintered into a handful of lifeless pieces. Only then did either man regain his dignity. The room sweat once more with embarrassment and awkwardness.

“Ah.” tried Strange, blushing high on his cheeks.

“I think you broke it.” agreed Barton.

Strange pushed his chest, “The word you’re looking for is _we. We_ broke the board.”

They disentangled, standing to inspect the damage. It was indeed quite broken. The shame settled over the room. It may have been funny, except for the reality of the situation.

Strange marched off to the kitchen for a garbage bag. Barton stood helplessly in the living room, cursing his life choices.

He looked up at the screen of the television.

_"Make sure you do not jump on the Wii Balance Board."_

_Yeah, bit late for that, fucker._

**Author's Note:**

> Things I researched for this fic:
> 
> \- Tai Chi  
\- Yoga poses  
\- Wii Fit (seriously I watched like five videos, actually played the game AND snuck a quote from a review into this thing!)  
\- The weight limit of the Wii Balance Board (330 pounds, if you were wondering)  
\- Wii Console Games from 2008
> 
> I guess I wanted accuracy in my dumbass rare pair fanfiction?
> 
> Comment if you'd like, I want to know: What's the dumbest thing you've ever broken during a stupid competition/bet.
> 
> And subscribe for more like this.


End file.
